


Gods' Right Hands

by FujinoLover



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Prophets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-24 02:26:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2564903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FujinoLover/pseuds/FujinoLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two right hands did not make one fully functioning body, but it did make good enemy from different ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What should we call Martine and Root’s ship? Maroot? Or rootine, like the glycoside, rutin? Or just rottin', which definitely fit them?

 

“Kill me if you can!”

 

Root had yelled before she took off on the opposite direction of the one Simon Lee had taken earlier. She knew Martine was dangerous—a combination of herself and Shaw in one deathly package—and still, she mocked her. Even without any gun on her person, Root had better chance fighting her off than letting her going after their number. With the aid of The Machine, she ran through the lobby while hoping each bullet Martine shot would not hit her or anyone else running around them to save their own life.

 

“You’re wasting your time,” Martine shouted as she reloaded her gun in plain sight. There was no need to take cover or to hide, not when her target had no weapon and she had Samaritan’s direction in her ear. “My associate is going after Simon.” She shot a couple of rounds. Bullets chipped the wall and embedded in the marble floor as she walked closer to the corner where Samaritan saw Root was hiding behind. “He would be dead within thirteen seconds.”

 

Root threw some toiletries she had taken from an abandoned housekeeping cart, but Martine simply sidestepped them and shot some more. The hallway was long and empty and without any camera. It led to the pantry, where there was a back entrance and loading dock. The Machine guided Root there, but her injuries were slowing her down. She had just passed the kitchen when Martine, who had thankfully run out of ammunition, caught up to her. Root groaned when her body was flung onto the closest wall, almost breaking her nose in the process. The position did not last for longer than two seconds, because the next thing she knew, Martine had flipped her around then pressed muscular forearm across her neck. She gasped, fruitlessly clawing at the strong limb as black spots began crowding her sight from the lack of oxygen.

 

“Oh,” Martine did not sound surprised at all. It was amusement that danced in her eyes. “I read your file. You have a thing for female operatives.” Her smirk was positively wicked; she had recognized the look in Root’s eyes. It was not only adrenaline running through her system. “Especially short, dark, and grumpy?”

 

Root writhed, but to no avail. Her body was too weak from the previous exertion. It went on for another long seconds. Martine stopped once she felt Root start to lose consciousness. The arm was retracted and hungry mouth came crashing upon Root’s own in exchange. The hair color was totally off. The height was not quite right (two inches too tall, The Machine supplied). The scent was just wrong—Shaw smelt of forest in early dawn, fresh and clean like new gauze, while Martine was like a summer day on beach, scorching hot with humid air. Yet Root could not stop herself from kissing back. She hissed when Martine gripped her shoulder, thumb digging into the bullet hole she gave her barely a minute ago. The bleeding was minimum but the bullet lodged inside was pressing on her bone. In return, she bit on Martine’s bottom lip until the skin broke and she tasted copper on the tip of her tongue. Martine did not seem affected by it. Instead, she pressed Root harder to the wall. Her uninjured hand scratched on Root’s bare arm, leaving angry red strips in its wake.

 

Root felt her head swim, from the pain radiating from her bullet wounds and Martine’s overwhelming presence. She could not help but picturing another person. Another woman with dark hair and even darker eyes, whose parting kiss was the last she had before the war began. Shaw had tasted of longing, of missed opportunities and unrequited feelings. Shaw cared about her, but not quite in the way Root did, because a relationship would only be a liability for both of them. Because war required sacrifices and it—the feeling she harbored for Shaw—scared her more than it hurt her after the rejection. She could not handle losing another she truly cared about, but Martine was none of those. Would never be one of those. Martine would probably be the one putting a bullet through her brain instead.

 

With the strength left in her, Root pushed forward. This time, she had Martine on the opposite wall. Root had a distinctive idea that it was because she had let her and the notion brought a small smile on her lips. Martine was ignoring her God, for _Root_. It boosted her arrogance.

 

“A good fuck,” Martine started, as if she had read her mind. Her hands scrambled to undo Root’s belt. It was followed by button popping and zipper tugged down. “Is a good fuck.” She went straight for the kill, smirking when Root’s face scrunched and the faintest gasp escaped her lips.

 

“I agree,” Root whispered back, hips jerking in time with Martine’s limited movement.

 

If any of them noticed the name slipped from Root’s lips when she came, none mentioned it. Root was quick to return the favor. She kissed Martine again, desperate to wash away the bittersweet taste Shaw’s name had left in her mouth, desperate to erase it from Martine’s memory. Although she knew Martine would remember and Shaw would surely be the first in her hit list, if only to hurt Root more. She understood the concept—her pre-The Machine self would do the very same thing—and she hated herself for it.

 

None of their Gods was watching as Root fell onto her knees, pulling Martine’s slacks and plain black panties down with her. She felt guilt twisted in her gut when salty wetness coated her tongue, but continued what she was doing nonetheless. Not a minute later, muscles tightened and a grunt alerted her of Martine’s climax. It made her wonder if Shaw would be as quiet and an invisible knife stabbed her from the offhand contemplation. It twisted deeper after she wiped off the remembrance of her betrayal to her own God with the back of her hand. She had lain with the enemy, instead of eliminating it.

 

“You are only human,” Martine commented whilst putting back her slacks.

 

They were, in their weak mortal flesh, dwindling under its basic instinct. They were driven by needs, by emotions, and it would lead to their demise sooner or later. Such irreparable bad codes. What they had done had proven just that and whatever retort Root had wanted to throw back died in her throat. She visibly blanched. Out of everyone, she had expected Harold, or even Reese or Shaw, to give her such reminder. Not _Martine_. Then she realized that Martine was nothing like her. Samaritan was _not_ her God; it was merely an employer to her. She did not worship it, was not willing to die in its name, had no personal gain (except for money, probably, and the fun of killing people) from doing its dirty job. It got Root thinking about what Harold had told her earlier, about being a replaceable asset. She was not sure which one was more favorable in this war, a devout like her or a merchant like Martine.

 

The Machine chimed in her ear, dissolving every doubt.

 

Root smiled in response. It was all she needed to hear from her God. “Are you going to kill me now?” She was still kneeling on the floor, ready to let Martine execute her with the combat blade she had hidden in her right boot.

 

Surprisingly, Martine only stared back with disinterest. “No,” she stated, head tilted to one side—obviously listening to Samaritan’s new order. She then turned on her heel and walked back to where she had come from, but not without calling over her shoulder, “There is plenty of time for me to kill you in the near future, Hannah Karpinski.”

 

Apparently, the program The Machine had installed for Root had done its new update. She was now Hannah Karpinski, the unsuspecting pastry chef who had just graduated from a well-known pastry school in France and was caught in the crossfire of a drive-by shooting on her way home from the airport. Standing on shaky legs, with unexpected relief flooding through her veins, she slowly resumed her way to the loading dock. Root had only taken two steps before a painfully familiar voice rang through her earpiece—the one in her good ear. The one she shared multiple communications with Harold, Reese, and Shaw. The one that should have been _off_ after the last time she talked to Harold.

 

_“Are you okay, Root?”_

 

Root stood still, hand propping herself on the wall whilst the other instinctively balled itself into a tight fist. “Shaw...” All of a sudden, it felt like she had been hit by a truck. She felt nauseous, but still managed to croak out a weak answer, “I’m fine. How... How long have you—“

 

_“Long enough.”_

 

Shaw had sounded neutral, but Root knew better. She wanted to scream back at her. That it was all Shaw’s fault in the first place, it was her decision that torn them apart, that she did not have any right to be angry or bitter or sad or whatever. Never before Root hoped it was Harold, or even Reese, who had overheard what Martine and she did. She could live with the scolding and the dirty look. Despite the thoughts, she was calm enough to wait for further reaction from Shaw.

 

What Root had not expected was the void _“get your ass out of there,”_ before the communication was turned off.

 

How she wished Martine had killed her then.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw could not help but wonder about the type of gun Martine had used to shoot Root and if she herself had a bigger caliber lying around the apartment. Just so she could re-shoot Root on the exact same spots, to get rid of Martine’s marks and make them her own.

 

Keeping information shared among them was a crucial point, especially with Samaritan watching. Thus when the extraction plan for Simon Lee was in motion, Shaw contacted Harold with the update. It would be up to him to tie the closure for this number, after all. She had not anticipated him to severe their communication so quick (and without proper scolding, too), but her mind dwelled on the last thing he had said.

 

_Miss Groves is running interference on Mister Lee._

 

Shaw had wanted to turn around. John needed to make sure Harold get out of the hotel unharmed and she... she was going to provide backup for Root. She didn’t, though, since doing so would compromise her cover. Even if they did go back to the hotel, it would have ended by then. So she focused on getting Simon to the blind spot near his office building and put her whole trust in Root.

 

This was what Shaw detested the most. She was like a shark; she had to keep moving to stay alive. Waiting and worrying without any way to alter the outcome was just not her. It happened when she got too close with people. There was Cole, the partner she failed to save but successfully avenged. Then there were Harold, John, and Root. She had sworn she would not let them be another Cole, because she would save them no matter what. However, for her to have an insurmountable urge to drop a current mission and run (or bike) all the way across the city to save a particular someone’s ass was entirely new and somewhat scary. That was when she understood that Root was important for her, more than Harold and John would ever be.

 

The realization washed over her the moment Root’s thumb wiped the dirt from her cheek. _Admit it, you’re worried about me_ , Root had said and for a split second Shaw almost nodded. _Almost_ being the key word. _I’m worried about the mission_ , she rolled her eyes in exaggerated annoyance before she replied. It left a bad taste in her mouth, but nothing she could not take. Root’s little smile had said otherwise, though. Right there and then, Shaw knew that Root knew.

 

It would have been easier if it were some sort of sexual tension coming from mutual lust and the rush of adrenaline from whenever they did a mission. Shaw would not mind scratching that particular itch once (or thrice) with Root. Alas, it was not that simple. Something told her that it would never be just sex and such notion terrified her more than Samaritan did. Mixing business with personal interest would only jeopardize their insanely amazing work chemistry; she had seen too many partnerships ended up with death back in her days working for the government.

 

For that reason alone, Shaw cut it off before anything more could happen—she ripped out the bud before its root grew stronger and encased her heart—with a kiss and a plain “no”. Root picked up everything she had chose not to say out loud and accepted it, albeit forlornly. There was no time for heart-to-heart talk, at least they both agreed on that point. Seeing Root for one last time, knowing the sadness in her eyes did not come entirely from the facts that Samaritan was online and The Machine was on the run, was the hardest goodbye Shaw had ever gone through.

 

Unfortunately, the thing she dealt with was more like a cancer. The main mass might be removed, but the cancerous cells had been spreading through the lymph system and traveled all over the body for quite some time.

 

Root’s random visits never cease to spark something within her, despite the irritation she showed on the outside. They were like the colorful tiny candles her father used to put on her birthday cake—bright enough to light up her face, but not too warm to sweep her over with unexplainable feeling. She recalled the number of the candles would increase by one each year and what little smile she had would grow wider, until the year her father died and the tradition stopped altogether. The emptiness it caused was the exact same one she was feeling at the moment.

 

“Shaw?”

 

She hummed back. They had disposed Simon’s unconscious body on the designated dumpster on the alleyway by his office. With his wallet and bag taken, it would appear as if he was being mugged.

 

“I’m going to tell Harold. You might want to...” John did not finish his sentence, he did not need to.

 

The implication got Shaw thinking about how obvious Root and she were, but it did not last for long. She nodded once at him then turned on her earpiece. Since John was talking with Harold, it connected her straight away to Root. Before she could say anything, however, the sound coming from the other side stunned her to a halt. It was that blonde bitch’s voice.

 

_“Especially short, dark, and grumpy?”_

 

Shaw frowned. If she could perfectly hear what Martine had said, then she must be _very_ _close_ to Root. Added with the slight panting she also picked up over the line, it was not hard to imagine Martine pinning Root down on the floor or up against the wall. She was just going to turn it off and tell John that they have to rush back to save Root when a distinctively different noise came through. It was the sound of lips against lips. Followed by a hiss, gasps, and some more fumbling. She could not tell which one of them was doing what because their voices had blended together.

 

There was fire inside Shaw’s chest.

 

It became a full blown inferno when Martine said, _“A good fuck,”_ she paused, possibly doing something to Root, _“is a good fuck.”_

 

Shaw swore if Martine coerced Root into having sex with her, she was going to torment her for weeks until she begged to be killed. However, her rage was short lived.

 

_“I agree.”_

 

It was really sick, Shaw thought, yet she could not stop herself. Here she was, standing in a dark alley with their number propped against the dumpster and John talking to Harold several feet away and she was listening to Martine fucking Root. The anger had transformed into pain. The sounds Root was making reminded her of everything she had missed, everything she could have but decided to turn down without giving it a chance. It was the payback she deserved and it hurt, but it hurt so _good_. At least it did, until she heard Root shudder with climax and a name leave her lips on impulse.

 

_“Sameen...”_

 

Shaw took off her earpiece and grasped it in her hand, but without turning it off. She had heard enough, at least for the moment. She walked up to John then tossed the car key to him. “Take it back for me.” Before he could ask her, she added, “I’m going for a walk.”

 

John nodded and went to the van.

 

Shaw waited until he had driven off before placing the earpiece back in her ear. “Are you okay, Root?” She asked after checking that Root was still breathing on the other side.

 

_“Shaw...”_ Root practically squeaked. _“I’m fine. How... How long have you—“_

 

“Long enough.” It was curt and clipped, void of any emotion.

 

Root was obviously surprised and possibly blanched with the realization that Shaw had heard everything she did, but Shaw herself did not take pleasure in her reaction. She kept telling herself the reason she asked was only to ensure that Martine had not killed or held Root hostage and that it had nothing to do with the bubbling fury she felt.

 

“Get your ass out of there.” Then she cut off their communication.

 

Walking was the last thing Shaw did. The tight smoldering knot in her gut did not allow her to do so. She was not so foreign with jealousy, since it was somewhere between anger and pain and was totally amongst the range of emotions she had. Although it was for a very few instances, she had felt it before. Like back in high school when that creepy guy Dexter Morgan scored a better grade than her in AP Biology (she was not a sore loser, she admitted he had better precision in dissecting the fetal pig) or in med school when Arizona Robbins got into residency program at John Hopkins and she didn’t (they had a thing so it ended in a very satisfying goodbye fuck). Since feelings did not come naturally to her, she had learned to lean on logic (but had long stopped doing so in regard of required socially-acceptable reactions). There was always something positive her brain could concentrate on from the outcome of jealousy, but this time there was none.

 

This time, Shaw was unsure it was Martine or Root or herself that she wanted to torture the most. Probably Martine. Definitely Martine. She would pull off her nails, one by one, and then moved to her teeth. Then she would break each finger before tearing off her limbs. Maybe she would even pop out her eyeballs for extra fun. It should be a long and painful death and Shaw could not comprehend how macabre her thought had turned out to be. This was not her. She could not deal with _this_ kind of jealousy, so she ran.

 

Without care of the number of people she knocked and how her blouse began sticking with sweat, Shaw ran with abandon. It was in no certain direction at first, but eventually she found herself align to the route to her apartment. She went on until she reached this nice gym where Sam Grey’s had membership at and had been doing some workouts whenever she had free time. Her feet, calves, and lungs were burning, but so did the untamed wrath drifting through her veins. She had to keep going, to channel this energy into something less homicidal, so she took on the punching bag until she could no longer feel her arms (she did not trust herself to get in the ring without killing her opponent).

 

By the time Shaw trudged up to her apartment, her whole body was aching. She passed out on the floor of her sparse kitchen, an empty water bottle on her side, and _Sameen_ echoed through her mind.

 

* * *

 

Morning came with promises of a better day and endless opportunities. Shaw, ever the good soldier she was, roused even before the sun filtered through the window. She was relieved to find a new text from Harold in her phone, telling her to come in early to do good old safe cracking and file swapping from Simon. The task kept her occupied and diverted her thought away from the persistent anger that still resided deep inside her.

 

“The real hard copy. As ordered.”

 

“Fine work. Digital files are easy.” Harold handed the print-out back so Shaw could dispose it into the nearest paper shredder. “But I was worried about the backup.”

 

“Any word from Root?” Shaw asked, because she had not asked the extent of her injury. Because she was too pissed off. Because Root was an important team member and it was Shaw’s responsibility—one she had neglected the night before—to provide medical support. Because she _cared_ about Root more than she would like to admit.

 

Harold, unfortunately, provided a non-concrete answer, “It’s going to be a long fight, but it must be won, at any cost.”

 

All reasoning died a swift death in Shaw’s head; she was going to fix everything before it was too late.

 

* * *

 

Finding Root, as it appeared to be, was not difficult. Not with said woman sitting on the bench across the street, her white shirt and blue sling caught Shaw’s attention the instant she stepped out of the building. Root appeared to have noticed her, too. They held their gaze, whereas Shaw narrowed her eyes as anger flared up yet again and Root’s expression filled with a mix of guilt and longing and Shaw wanted to punch her.

 

The moment was broken when Root nodded once—an unsaid apology, pretty much like the one Shaw had given her a couple of months back—then she got to her feet and turned on her heel, ready to go to wherever she had to be. Shaw would not let her, though. They had done this before, walking away from each other without saying the things that needed to be said or doing the things that needed to be done, but not this time. This time Shaw marched through the street and grabbed Root’s uninjured arm, flipping her around just like Martine did not twenty four hours ago.

 

“Hello, Shaw,” Root greeted, fake smile intact as she tried not to flinch. Her long sleeve concealed the scratch mark Martine had left on her arm, the one Shaw was griping. “Do you need something? I have to go, my lunch break is about to end—“

 

“Take the day off.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Shaw gritted her teeth. “I said, take. The day. Off.”

 

“I can’t. It’s my first day at the restaurant.” Root’s expression turned from serious to playful to bored in matter of seconds. “Unfortunately, some of us have to do mundane job to stay alive and out of Samaritan’s eyes.”

 

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Root.”

 

Root heaved a defeated sigh and then without a word, followed Shaw to her car. The only talk they had was Shaw asking the address of the restaurant ‘Hannah’ worked at, for she must inform her boss first before taking the rest of the day off. While Root was doing so, Shaw placed order for takeouts. Then they were back on their way to Shaw’s apartment.

 

The silence weighted down on Root’s shoulders like heavy lead. It was lonely with The Machine quiet in her ear. She had been craving for human interaction, preferably with people who knew the real her instead of whatever persona she was currently using. It was the reason she kept seeking for spending time with Harold whenever she could. Shaw, while definitely a more preferable companion, tended to be less thrilled in doing verbal exchange.

 

Shaw was, however, just as perceptive—if not more—as Harold was. It did not surprise Root to find Shaw handing her a couple of pills after she finished her share of lunch. Left it to her to figure out Root had not taken the prescribed drug to lessen the pain on her shoulder and ribs (the tingling pain reminded her that she was alive). Whatever Shaw gave her, Root had no doubt that it was the good stuff, because within minutes her eyes unwillingly dropped under its influence. She still tried to fight the sleepiness off, though.

 

“Use the bed.”

 

The order had startled Root so bad that she jolted up from her slumped position on the lone armchair.

 

“Are you sure?” Root asked, yawning.

 

Shaw merely stared at her with a pointed look that spared no room for further argument.

 

Root did not need more cajoling either, she was too tired and in pain to protest. Sluggishly, she ambled to the queen-sized bed, noting the improvement from the last one Shaw had, and began to strip. It was a tricky feat, with her sling and drowsiness. She was not aware of dark eyes following her every move.

 

For a second, Shaw contemplated on helping Root taking off her clothes, but quickly decided against the idea. She was uncertain of what she might do if she were to be overwhelmed by the sweet scent of Root’s perfume and the danger that seemed to radiate off her body all the time. Her attention was immediately drawn upon the white dressings as they came into view. Shaw could not help but wonder about the type of gun Martine had used to shoot Root and if she herself had a bigger caliber lying around the apartment. Just so she could re-shoot Root on the exact same spots, to get rid of Martine’s marks and make them her own. Apparently, with jealousy came possessiveness, and both did not do good on her sanity. She was thankful Root had slipped under the cover before she could do what her mind suggested.

 

Root was dozing off when she felt thumb rubbing the jagged skin on the back of her right ear—a scar courtesy to Control—and she purred in response. A low but sharp _don’t do it again_ pierced through her foggy mind. She was convinced that it was Shaw and hummed accordingly, even though she did not know by _it_ , Shaw meant sacrificing herself or fucking the enemy. Probably both. She would not do both. The fluttering sensation of something softer pressed on her temple was the last thing Root remembered before the sandman stole her consciousness.

 

In the last months, she had developed paranoia—rightfully so, with supercomputer like Samaritan hunting them down—and along with it, insomnia. The one constant of her ever-changing covers was the fact that each of them was someone who had just come back or moved in from overseas, or had been doing an undercover job for months. It meant she was not granted with permanent residence like the rest of the team did. Hopping from hotel to hotel in the span of a few days and adopting new identity had left her drained, yet she was still occupied at night. The room was unfamiliar, the sheet felt itchy on her skin and she preferred to listen to the static in the phone or watch the infomercial, encrypting the digital map hidden in it and then marked the real map herself until she was too tired and passed out. Now, with Shaw’s presence in the room and the familiarity of her scent enveloping her whole being, she slept more soundly than she did in months.

 

By the time Root woke up, the sun had set and the lamp on the nightstand was the only source of light in the whole apartment. She rubbed her eyes and blinked several times to adjust her sight, which instantly came to rest at the person leaning on the side of the bed. Shaw was sitting on the floor, cleaning her gun with a level of meticulousness that provoked a pang of envy and awe in Root. Shaw’s long hair was free of its usual ponytail, leaving the dark tresses to cascade down her back.

 

Giving in to the temptation, Root lay on her uninjured side then reached forward to run her fingers through the slightly damp locks. She was clearly still in daze—wondering whether the peck on her forehead was real or just her cruel imagination playing with her—because she snapped out of it the moment Shaw turned her head to see her on the eye, an unreadable expression on her face. Root withdrew her hand as if it was being burned. Whatever excuse and teasing remark she might have in mind were soon forgotten. Her earlier query was answered when Shaw twisted her upper body, elbow propping herself on the mattress as she craned neck to kiss Root fully on the lips.

 

This time, their kiss tasted of hope.

 


End file.
